


all the time (in the world)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curse Breaking, M/M, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “The first living creature you meet at the gates of your lovely mansion will be cursed for eternity.”/Count de Lettenhove met a witch. That was how Jaskier’s story started—the Count being his father, of course. The Count was in the forest, near a swamp, holding a bow and arrow, when he stumbled across the witch. She was ugly, face twisted, as she popped out of thin air.“You.”What was supposed to be an average hunt—just for fun, as the Count hardly needed to hunt for survival—would soon be remembered as the beginning of a nightmare.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 449





	all the time (in the world)

**Author's Note:**

> written for one of my lovely supporters, who was so so patient! <3 i hope u (and everyone else) enjoy!!
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Count de Lettenhove met a witch. That was how Jaskier’s story started—the _Count_ being his father, of course. The Count was in the forest, near a swamp, holding a bow and arrow, when he stumbled across the witch. She was ugly, face twisted, as she popped out of thin air.

“You.”

What was supposed to be an average hunt—just for fun, as the Count hardly _needed_ to hunt for survival—would soon be remembered as the beginning of a nightmare.

“Get away!” he shouted bravely, stabbing at her with the arrow, though she was floating in the air, far out of reach.

She smiled nastily as the wind picked up, faster and harsher. “You,” she repeated, “will be _mine_.”

“No,” he said firmly. His heart was beating like crazy, but he did not show it. He stood, shoulders pushed back, and unwavering.

The witch was undeterred; _consent_ was a foreign concept to her. All she needed was her magic, her _charms_. She lowered herself, slowly, until she was standing in front of him. “You think you have a choice,” she said, almost purring, “but you do not.”

She reached out, fast, and pressed her thumb to his forehead, damp with sweat.

She had had many men over the decades— _centuries_ , even. All she had to do was charm them, and they were like puppets. All of them died, though. Humans and their measly _health_. She needed a _new_ puppet, and the Count—with his light hair, and striking eyes, blue as the sea—was beautiful. She wanted _him_.

But he was fighting her.

Most men fought—of course they did—but not for very long. They weren’t strong enough. She was stronger. She frowned, chanting under her breath. “Do not be a _fool_ ,” she said, lowly. “Stop fighting, and accept your fate.”

Suddenly there were _flashes_ —

Of a beautiful woman with dark hair and smiling brightly.

And a young boy, jumping around with flowers in his hair.

“You _cannot_ ,” he said through clenched teeth, “take me from _them_.”

The witch suddenly stumbled back, her thumb sizzling. She had almost used too magic, burning herself with it. “You _bastard!_ ” she exclaimed, spitting in the air. She had _never_ been refused before, not once, had never met a man with a strong enough will to _do it._

He rushed back to his horse, a few feet away.

“You will regret this!” she shouted after him, lifting back in the air, fingertips sparking with anger. He didn’t stop, not even for a second: he mounted his horse, and took off through the trees. If he thought he could refuse her with no consequences, he was a _fool_. “The first living creature you meet at the gates of your lovely mansion will be _cursed_ for _eternity_.”

She listened as he rode off, cutting around trees, toward his pretty mansion.

Smiling nastily, she mumbled something under her breath, the sky darkening over the forest.

*

He slowed down once he was out of the forest. His mansion was on the outskirts of town: the Lettenhove Estate, the home of the Count of Lettenhove, his wife, and their son.

Glancing back, he let out a breath of relief when he noticed the witch wasn’t following. Likely, he presumed, she was cursed to the forest or something equally as fitting. He turned back and continued down the dirt path that led to the mansion, pausing only when he remembered her warning:

_“The first living creature you meet at the gates of your lovely mansion will be cursed for eternity.”  
_

Obviously his horse was safe, he thought, which meant— _the dog._ The family dog that his son had named, and adored. She always greeted them at the gates, wagging her tail and barking. His stomach churned at the realization.

He leaned over, burying his face in his hands, and fought back the nausea.

His horse neighed, stomping, obviously sensing his discomfort. He took a deep breath and straightened up, taking her reins again. He had no choice; he couldn’t risk returning to the forest—the witch couldn’t be trusted. Even if he begged or promised riches, she’d probably just ask for more. More and _more_. They were greedy creatures, all right.

He continued down the path, thinking. The dog was old, had lived a _long_ , spoiled life with them. If the curse ended up being too much, too _painful_ , they could at least put her down. A mercy killing of sorts; she deserved that.

Of course his son might have a problem forgiving him, but he would understand when he was older.

Shaking his head, he knew he was nearing the gates without even having to look. He had taken this path so many times over the years.

They could build something—in memory of her, at least. She had been loyal and sweet over the years; it was the least they could do. Some folks did not think of dogs so dearly but they had always treated her like part of the family.

Partly because his son had insisted on it, at first, but it had eventually just became normal to them.

After the dog was always the servants, greeting him brightly. He couldn’t risk a human getting cursed because of him. That was absolutely _not_ an option. Not to mention, he _adored_ his servants. They were also like family to him—to _all_ of them, and unlike most nobility he paid them well, knowing they had families of their own.

He numbly climbed off his horse once he was closer, and that’s when he heard it: the jarring of the gates as they opened, metal screeching against metal. He was prepared for it. Turning, he expected to see the family dog running at him, fluffy and barking, tail whipping the air with her joy.

But—

It was not her.

It was his son, bright-eyed and waving.

“ _Julian_ ,” he said.

He turned away, bending over, and emptied the contents of his stomach.

*

He snatched him up in his arms, almost too big for it, and rushed through the doors, calling for his wife—the Countess. She appeared at the top of the stairs, looking frazzled. “Darling,” she said as she descended the steps. “What is it?”

“We need to talk,” he said. “Quickly.”

Julian wiggled out of his arms. “Father,” he said with a pout, “I told you I was too big for that.”

“Okay,” she said, touching both of their shoulders. She was calm as always. He adored that about her. She turned them toward the stairs. “Come, my loves.” But then she glanced at her son, barely thirteen, and paused, thumbing his cheek. “ _Darling_ ,” she said with a hint of concern, addressing him or their son, he would never know.

The Count looked over her shoulder and glanced at their son; his eyes were cloudy, eyelashes fluttering. His stomach lurched again, but there was nothing else to empty.

“We need a sorcerer,” he said. “Quickly.”

*

They hired the best of the best, both sorcerers and healers, but they all said the same thing, just phrased a bit differently: It was an aging curse. If he found love— _true_ love, on his behalf or mutual—he would revert back to his actual age and age normally. _If not,_ he was destined to age too quickly, years over just a few months. All of them said they couldn’t break it, not without risking their son’s life.

The Count held his wife as they cried on the third night, after a visit from the latest sorcerer.

“We have to do something,” she cried against his chest. “He’s our _son_.”

They had explained the situation—or _tried_ to, at least—to Julian, but he was still too young. He seemed more concerned about his parents, who were weeping almost every night. He brushed a hand through her hair.

“We’ll find him a partner,” he said suddenly. He pulled back, nodding. “That’s it: that’s all he needs, right?”

She sniffed, clutching at the front of his shirt. “But how?”

“What young maiden wouldn’t want—” he gestured around “—this? Money, _nobility_.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s—that might work,” she said, hopeful for the first time in days.

Embracing her, they hugged for what felt like an hour before they parted ways and sent out the news: _Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, was looking for a bride._

*

Julian was _less_ than thrilled about the news, which they hadn’t really considered in their planning. “I don’t want to,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

The Countess pulled him forward, into her arms. “Darling,” she said softly. “You must.”

He was aging faster and faster with each day, though he still looked young.

“I wanted to be like father,” he muttered, pouting. “I wanted to find love on my _own_ terms.”

She pet his hair gently. “I know, dear,” she said, meaning it. He had always talked about grand _adventures_ , and fighting dragons, all things she knew would never happen but indulged because he was young and bright-eyed. “But you have to.”

Julian sighed, pulling back. “Because I’m _cursed_ ,” he said, like he was talking about the weather.

Her hand stilled in his hair. “Yes, darling,” she replied, fighting back tears. “That is why.”

“What happens if I don’t?” he asked as if they hadn’t already explained it, over and over again. She crouched down, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“You will keep aging, Julian, _far_ faster than any human has a right to. But if you do this, if you find a person you love, who loves you, it will stop the aging. You will age _with_ them, connected in a way. I know you don’t understand, baby, but this is important.” She squeezed his shoulders. “To me, and to your father.”

Julian stared at his mother. “Okay,” he said finally, reaching out and thumbing away her tears. “I understand. I’ll do it.”

Smiling sadly, she hugged him and sobbed into his hair. Julian was quiet, wishing this would all just _stop_.

*

But things were never so easy. Maidens—all beautiful, all young—arrived, one after the other, but they all left. Some left simply because Julian neglected them, showing no interest.

But _others_ …

They heard rumors of the curse from townsfolk. Most of them were untrue; the townsfolk had twisted the truth over the years, exaggerating Julian’s aging and scaring the young women. They always kissed Julian on the cheek before they left, returning to their families.

By the time he was seventeen, he looked to be in his late twenties, easily passing for a man. But he did not _feel_ like a man, especially as he eavesdropped on his parents during the night, sobbing and holding each other.

“You need to try harder,” his mother had said. “It’s not that bad yet, darling. You can do it if you just… _try_.”

Julian _had_ tried, and tried, and _tried_ but he realized fairly quickly that he could not _force_ himself to fall in love. It had to be real, genuine, _natural_. The witch had probably accounted for that. His parents believed he could if he just kept _trying_.

But he couldn’t, and so he made a decision.

Packing up, just a few clothes and the lute his parents had bought him for his fourteen birthday, he scribbled a note and left it on his father’s desk before leaving the mansion.

_I’m sorry, father and mother. I cannot keep watching as you both suffer because of me. If I ever return, know it will only be with a partner on my arm. If I don’t, please don’t worry. I love you both very much. Farewell, your son._

*

 _Jaskier_.

It was fitting for a traveling bard, not the son of a Count and Countess. Jaskier traveled from town to town, playing songs and only having to worry about _himself_. It wasn’t all fun and games, of course. He hadn’t taken any money when he left (a dumb move on his part) and he wasn’t exactly making enough money to feed himself _and_ put a roof over his head.

Most nights he slept in the woods, surviving on moldy bread or fruit.

He searched for _them_ , of course—his partner. He was hopeful at first, even, because without his parents he wasn’t restricted to just the maidens in bars, as pretty as they were. He looked at the men just as closely, hoping he would _feel_ something— _anything_ —but his heart was never in it. Every night he left with a frown and an almost-empty pouch of coins.

But at least he no longer had to sit back and watch his parents as they cried over him, mourning him like he wasn’t _right there._

The aging was a _pain_ , no doubt, and by seventeen, almost eighteen, he was easily mistaken for almost thirty but he hardly cared. He couldn’t think too much about it. His _fate_ , as they had always called it. He was _cursed_ , not _dead_. He could still _live_ when he had the chance, even if there was always a weight in the pit of his stomach, reminding him that he wasn’t like the others and that time was running out for him.

*

A month before his eighteenth birthday, Jaskier decided to celebrate. He went to the local tavern of the small town he had been inhabiting. He was tired of playing the same old songs, performed by bards all over the Continent, famous ballads. Tonight he would play his _own_ songs, starting with the ballad he had written after leaving home.

All about the pain of his childhood, of the curse.

Jaskier cleared his throat, stood a little taller, and started to play.

No one paid him any attention. He didn’t mind; he was happy just to play for himself.

Spinning around, eyelashes fluttering, he caught sight of _him_. A man, brooding in one of the dark corners of the tavern. Jaskier stumbled a bit, his heart skipping a beat. His face was mostly shielded by his hood and yet Jaskier still knew, somehow, that he was _beautiful_.

Jaskier turned away, feeling weirdly light, and finished the song.

Once he had finished, he glanced back at the man. He was still there, still by himself. Jaskier chewed on the inside of his cheek. He had given up on the idea of finding _true love,_ a love strong enough to break a curse, but there was no denying there was something different about the man. Jaskier felt like there was a string between them, tugging him across the tavern.

When he approached the table, the man looked up. He _was_ beautiful. Light hair, long and half pulled back, piercing eyes. “I’m here to drink _alone_ ,” he said in a deep, unimpressed voice. Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach.

“Isn’t that so boring?” he asked lightly, sliding into the chair across from him. His eyes flickered, then, to the swords on the bench. His heart pounded in his chest. “Oh, oh,” he breathed, sitting a little straighter. He had heard rumors of him on his travels. He was _far_ more beautiful than he’d been led to believe, in his honest opinion. “You’re, um, the – the witcher. Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt looked away, reaching for his cup and taking a quiet sip.

Jaskier squirmed in his chair. “How about I buy you another drink?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t. He barely had a few coins in his pouch, but he didn’t care. He was blinded by the warmth in his chest, in the pit of his stomach.

He felt _wonderful_. Powerful. Younger.

“Why would you do that?” he asked finally, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Jaskier didn’t really have an answer, beyond the pulling on his heart. “Why _not?_ ” he asked, grinning crookedly. Geralt breathed out through his nose, a scoff or maybe even a laugh. Jaskier took that as a win and waved down the server.

*

Jaskier looked in the mirror later that night, after his first meeting with Geralt, and almost sobbed with unexpected joy. He looked younger. Not eighteen, not by far, but _younger_. He touched his face, laughing and dancing around the room.

There was just one problem.

In the morning, he caught Geralt before he left the town, on the back of a dark horse.

“What do you want?” he asked, staring down at him. If Geralt noticed the difference, he didn’t mention it.

Jaskier shifted on his feet. “I want to go with you,” he said, continuing before he could shoot him down. “I—I could be your barker,” he said, flailing his arms, heart pounding. “Or—or _something._ Please. I won’t bother you, I swear.”

Geralt continued to stare at him, unblinking. “You will have to walk,” he said finally.

He beamed, brighter than the sun. “Okay,” he said cheerily. “I’m used to walking.”

This was it—the moment he’d been waiting for. Maybe Geralt wasn’t his truest love, but he was _something_. Jaskier could feel it, like magic under his skin, making him feel not only younger but like he was capable of anything.

*

Over the months, and then even years, Jaskier’s feelings for Geralt grew stronger, day by day. He realized it had nothing to do with any kind of magic. He actually _loved_ Geralt, on his own accord. He loved his secret kindness, and his rough edges, every part of him. He was no idiot, of course. Geralt obviously did not return his feelings, but that wasn’t a problem.

Jaskier’s love was strong enough for the both of them, keeping him young and healthy and aging—well, not _normally_ , exactly. He seemed to be aging even slower than he would’ve, had he never been cursed. He made the connection soon after they had met, that since Geralt aged slower, due to his mutations, he was aging alongside him, matching it.

Geralt never questioned it, thankfully, because he wouldn’t know what to say.

He was happy, for the first time in a long time. He was even thinking of returning to his parents, to ease their worries. “I’m okay now,” he would say, and they would hug him, like they used to do when he was a young boy.

But then—

 _Yennefer_ entered their lives, all dark curls and red lips. Jaskier somehow knew the moment he saw her that she was going to be a problem.

Geralt was drawn to her, and who could blame him? She was beautiful and sharp-tongued and strong. She was the type of person he had always dreamed of being with, certainly. Jaskier was none of that; he was weak, and human, and annoying, and—maybe worst of all— _cursed_.

He knew they were the destined lovers of this story, and he had no right to be upset.

Geralt didn’t even know of his feelings for him—he had made sure of that, keeping them secret, hidden close to his heart. But even if he did, even if Jaskier told him, he owed him _nothing_. He should feel lucky, just to be his friend. Geralt didn’t have many friends, if any, and he needed one. But—it wasn’t _enough,_ for him or for the curse; jealously was an ugly thing, settling in the pit of his stomach and weighing him down.

Jaskier hid it well, smiling brightly when they saw Yennefer next, at the bottom of the mountain.

“The crow’s feet are new,” she remarked casually, looking over at him.

Jaskier’s heart stilled in his chest. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, well, your jokes are…” He looked down. “Old,” he finished lamely, quietly.

After that, they ascended the mountain.

Jaskier never would’ve expected what would happen _after_ they had finished the quest, particularly the cruelness of Geralt’s words, stabbing through his heart. The wind was harsh, blowing through his hair. The arrow twisted in his chest, more painful than anything he had ever felt. “Geralt,” he said, hoping he could fix this.

But Geralt didn’t look at him. His eyes watered as he looked out over the edge of the mountain.

“Right, well,” he said, half-turning. “I’ll, um—I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” He turned fully, took a step, waited a split-second. _Please_ , he begged silently, but Geralt didn’t stop him. Blinking away the tears, he continued on.

The journey down the mountain was long and lonely. Jaskier sniffed, wiping roughly at his eyes.

“No,” he said, to himself or to what he hoped was some higher power, he wasn’t sure. “No, _no_.”

He could practically _feel_ his heart shattering, like broken glass behind his ribs, stabbing him. He had been so ungrateful, constantly wanting more and _more_ from Geralt, and now he would have none of him. _Just like you deserve,_ he thought bitterly. Jaskier let out a pitiful sob, glad he was alone on the dirt path, and stumbled over, sitting on a rock.

There was a puddle at his feet. He took a shaky breath, steeling himself. Leaning forward, he peered in the murky water. He couldn’t even sob, the lump in his throat was so big. The curse was back, stronger than ever, deep wrinkles around his eyes, around his mouth. Jaskier wondered what Yennefer would say if she saw him like _this_.

*

Jaskier traveled across the Continent, never staying in one place for long. He never looked at his reflection if he could help it. He saw it, once, in the mirror of an inn and his stomach churned painfully at the sight of his own face, aged and wrinkly.

He was no longer recognized as the bard, _Jaskier._ How could he be? He had aged years—decades, even—in just a few short months. Now he went by his real name again: _Julian_.

Over the last few months, he had heard—more than once—rumors about the White Wolf searching for _him_. For Jaskier, his missing bard. Did he believe them? Not really. He had made his feelings for him perfectly clear on the mountain, and it was the reason for his reflection.

Jaskier jumped from town to town, doing odd jobs for money, no longer performing despite still carrying his lute with him. He couldn’t get rid of it, no matter what happened. It was part of him, just as much as the curse. Finding jobs was growing harder over the months, aging so quickly. No one wanted to hire an old man when dozens of _young_ men were available.

Feeling defeated, and tired, he disappeared to the woods.

He never thought—as a young boy—that he would end up sleeping in the woods so much as an adult, hunting for _survival_ , going to sleep with a empty stomach when he didn't end up catching anything. But he _preferred_ being alone, away from the rest of society. He still never looked at his reflection, pointedly not looking down when he washed off in streams.

Six months after their departure on the mountain, Jaskier saw Geralt again.

He wasn’t looking for him, or expecting it, of course. He was trudging through a small town, lute on his back, when he stumbled across him. It was pure luck, really, that they were in the same town at the same time. Jaskier had only left the woods for supplies. Geralt stopped suddenly, kicking up dirt. Roach shook her head, snorting loudly.

Jaskier assumed he wouldn’t recognize him, just like all the others. But—

“Your eyes,” he said, barely a whisper. “ _Jaskier?_ ”

He stiffened, clutching the strap of his bag, lute heavy on his back. “Julian,” he corrected sharply, turning away. “You have the wrong man.”

But he didn’t get far before Geralt was rushing forward and grabbing his arm. “Jaskier,” he repeated, breathless. “I’ve been searching for you for _six months_.” He paused, mouth twisting in a frown, eyeing him with concern. “Wh—what _happened_?”

Jaskier almost laughed, hysterical, pain and regret and anger boiling over after so many years of just _taking_ it. Taking what life had to give him. “Do you _really_ want to know?” he asked, snatching his arm out of his grip, heart pounding. “I am _cursed_ , Geralt. The only way to stop my aging—” he gestured at his own face, knowing it had to be an ugly sight, even without seeing it “—is love. I have to love someone, and they have to love me back.”

Geralt blinked at him, eyes widening. Jaskier squeezed his hands into fists at his sides.

“Or—or at the very least love them enough for the both of us,” he continued, a little softer, eyes stinging. “I thought I would never have that, that I would always be this way, but then I met _you_ , Geralt, and for a short while I thought I could be _happy_ , but—”

Geralt suddenly lurched forward, startling him. But there was no pain; just the warmth of Geralt’s body as he hugged him, arms wrapping around his back.

Jaskier let out a sob, unable to suppress it. He was so close he could feel the slow beat of Geralt’s heart. Geralt pulled him even closer, somehow, burying his face in his hair. “Jaskier,” he said roughly. “I didn’t know, and I’m—I’m sorry. I should’ve realized you were suffering and—”

“Don’t,” he said, cheeks wet with tears. He wasn’t sure he could take it.

Geralt pulled back, gripping his shoulders. His eyes were dark, damp. Jaskier had never seen him cry. He was stunned by the sight, speechless. “I am sorry for what I said on the mountain,” he said gruffly, sincere, “but more than that I am sorry for not realizing what you were going through, and for not telling you how I felt.”

Jaskier didn’t understand. He sniffed. “What do you mean?”

“You are not the only one,” he said stiffly. Jaskier still didn’t understand. His head was pounding from the crying. “I feel similarly, but I—I was too much of a coward to say anything.”

He leaned in, no words, and lightly kissed his forehead, soft lips against soft skin. Jaskier let out a sob, trembling.

They didn’t need words after that—or, well, they did, but _later._ Jaskier buried his face in the warm crook of Geralt’s neck and sobbed, openly and loudly. Geralt rubbed his back.

Suddenly there was a rush of water from above, soaking them both. They separated, cursing. Jaskier looked up; hanging out of a window was an elderly woman, swinging a bucket. “Go somewhere else with your sobbing!“ she shouted down at them. ”For god's sake, young men don't have _any_ shame.“

Jaskier rolled his eyes, lowering his head again. He startled when he noticed Geralt staring at him with wide, wide eyes. “Jaskier,” he said, cupping his face. “ _You’re_ —the curse—”

He looked down. Between them, on the ground, was a puddle. He blinked at his own reflection. He didn’t just look young; he looked even younger than he _should’ve_ been. Like the day he had met Geralt all those years ago, fresh-faced with smooth skin and bright eyes. He quickly noticed it wasn’t just that; he didn’t just _feel_ younger, like he usually did when the curse weakened, but like a weight he’d been—unknowingly—carrying since childhood had been lifted off his shoulders.

Was this how he was _supposed_ to feel?

He let out a sob of joy, eyes watering.

Geralt tugged him closer again, laughing. “Jaskier, what—? I mean—”

“I think the curse—I don’t know,” he stammered, laughing with him, wet and hysterical. “It’s like—I think we _broke_ it.” He wasn’t sure how, but he didn’t care. He felt _free_ again. Maybe his love for the other man was really just that strong.

*

The curse never returned. Jaskier had been _hoping_ for that, of course, but he couldn’t quite believe it after living for so long with it, constantly weighing him down. He should’ve been happy as a result, obviously—and he _was_ —but he also found himself moping a lot, like tonight, sitting in front of a bright fire and barely eating.

He knew _why_ he was sad, when he really thought about it, but he wasn’t sure how to bring it up.

Thankfully Geralt surprised him, not for the first time, with how observant he could be. “Jaskier,” he said, gently taking the stick out of his hand, meat gone cold. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier turned toward him, biting the inside of his cheek. He thought of his mother, and his father, and even the servants and butlers he had loved like family. “I want to go back,” he said, nearly too fast. When Geralt just tilted his head, as he always did when he was curious, Jaskier took a deep breath and reached out, grabbing one of his hands. “I need to visit them, Geralt,” he said softly. “My family. You don’t know all the details, because I haven’t told you, but—but I _abandoned_ them. I thought it would be for the better. I thought—I thought the curse would never end.”

Geralt stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, a silent comfort. Jaskier smiled slightly.

“They deserve to know I’m okay, and—even more than that? I want you to meet them,” he added with a blush, squeezing his hand. “I want them to meet _you_.”

Geralt nodded curtly. “Okay.”

He expected more of a fight, really.

“Just like that?” he asked skeptically. Because he didn’t want to _force_ Geralt to do anything he didn’t want to do. Even if he did really, _really_ want him to come. He knew his parents would love him if only because they would see how happy he made him.

Geralt scooted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. The fire was warm on their skin, flames crackling. Jaskier leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder, sighing softly. “I won’t lie and pretend like I know what I’m doing,” he said after a moment. “I’ve never—been in this position. I’ve never had this. Or felt this way. I’m nervous, admittedly, because what if they don’t like—”

Jaskier turned his head, kissing his cheek. It was stupidly sappy and romantic. His heart soared in his chest. “They won’t,” he assured him.

“Hmm,” he replied with a quirk of his mouth. Jaskier knew his different expressions by now—that was one of amusement, and fondness. Jaskier grinned. “Maybe, maybe not. But I want to be there for you, no matter what.”

Jaskier suddenly sat up, swinging a leg. He settled in Geralt’s lap, straddling him. The fire was hot on his back, too close for comfort. He didn’t care; he was too distracted by the hands currently wiggling their way under his shirt. He leaned down, lightly brushing their lips together. Geralt tasted salty, from the meat.

“You are a good man,” he whispered against his mouth.

Geralt nipped at his bottom lip, growling. Jaskier could feel the press of his erection. “Save your compliments for later.”

Jaskier laughed, “ _Deal_.”

*

The travel back to Lettenhove wasn’t a quick one. It took them nearly three weeks before they arrived at the estate Jaskier had once called home. His arms squeezed around Geralt’s waist, subconsciously, as they approached the gates. Geralt stopped Roach a few feet away, twisting to look at him. The only show of his concern was the crease between his eyebrows.

Jaskier smiled, a bit unsure. Of himself, of his decision. It was quiet, almost too quiet. No longer was there a young boy on the property, running around and chasing his dog, laughing wildly.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said, uncharacteristically gentle. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Jaskier just shook his head. “Continue,” he commanded around the lump in his throat.

Geralt nodded, twisting back around. Tugging lightly on her reins, Roach continued to the gates. He stopped her again once they were close, climbing off. He helped Jaskier down after; it was more for the comfort of it as he didn’t actually _need_ help. He had grown accustomed to riding the horse over the years.

They held hands as they approached the gates. Nothing happened for so long Jaskier was beginning to think the estate had been abandoned. His mind jumped to the worst case scenario—maybe he had taken too long. Maybe his parents had died while he was away, never to know what had happened to their son and that he had— _finally_ —found the love he had so desperately been searching for.

But then suddenly there was the familiar squeak of the gates opening. Jaskier squeezed his hand, heart pounding.

The first face he saw was a familiar one, stepping into the path. It was one of the butlers from when he had been a young boy; he had aged significantly over the years, predictably, but there was no forgetting him. He had played with him a lot as a child, though now he didn’t look like he was up for much of anything, leaning heavily on a cane.

It was just like his father to keep him even long after his capabilities had dwindled.

“I’m afraid the Count and Countess are busy,” he said, voice cracking on almost every syllable. “But if you wish to stay until their current meeting is over—”

Jaskier rushed forward. Geralt was dragged with him, a result of their interlaced fingers. Roach followed slowly, never one to be separated from Geralt for long.

“It’s me,” he said. “It’s—It’s me; Julian.”

At first the butler just stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving before he took a shaky step forward, clutching his cane. “No,” he said. “We thought—” He visibly hesitated. “We thought you were _dead_ , Jaskier.”

Jaskier didn’t have much to say to that. He couldn’t blame him, or anyone, for thinking such a thing. It wasn’t like he had written letters. But now he was back. He was here to fix things. To introduce the man he loved to the parents who had loved him enough to kill themselves trying to find a cure. He simply smiled and suddenly the butler's cane was dropping, hitting the grassy dirt with a _thump_ , as he rushed forward and threw his arms around the—at least _visibly_ —young couple.

Really, Geralt was probably just caught in the crossfire, being so close to Jaskier.

Jaskier let out a sob or laugh, he wasn’t sure, and hugged him back. He almost felt bad for Geralt, blinking owlishly and stiff at his side.

After they separated, Geralt reached down and picked up the butler’s cane, who smiled sheepishly as he accepted it, clearing his throat. Jaskier wiped at his cheeks, eyes wet and dripping.

“I’m here to see my parents,” Jaskier said as if that wasn’t the obvious conclusion. “You said they were in a meeting?”

Suddenly the butler’s eyes widened, nearly comical. “Oh, oh,” he said, stabbing the ground with his cane as he looked back at the mansion, a good few yards away from the gates. “You—you need to go,” he said, looking back, “and quickly.” Jaskier blinked, not understanding at first. Thankfully he didn’t seem to be finished: “Your father and mother are planning to sell the estate.”

Jaskier didn’t believe his own ears. Geralt found his hand, squeezing, a silent comfort. “What?” he asked in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

“They thought you were dead, Julian,” he repeated softly. “Your parents have no fond memories of this place, _and_ no heirs.” He smiled slightly. “If you wish to take back what is rightfully yours, I would hurry.”

Suddenly he understood, stomach churning. “Can you—take care of—” He gestured wildly at Roach. At his responding nod, Jaskier took off with Geralt at his heels. They banged open the doors to the mansion; the halls were eerily quiet, just a few maids puttering around. They all stopped to look at him but Jaskier had no interest in chatting.

He ascended the stairs as quickly as he could, nearly tripping. Thankfully Geralt was there to catch him.

Jaskier rushed down the hallway to the room his parents had always used for business, meetings and the such. There were a couple men positioned at the door, who tried—and failed—to stop them. Mostly because of Geralt, who pushed them away like they were bugs.

He pushed the doors open, gasping for air.

All eyes turned to them. At first every pair of eyes—two of which were blue like his own—were dark with annoyance at being interrupted. But then his mother—oh, how she had aged, new wrinkles around her eyes and mouth—stood up, nearly knocking her chair back. Her eyes softened, covering her mouth with a sob.

His father followed, _succeeding_ in knocking his chair back. “Julian,” he said, eyes wide and questioning like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

The only other man in the room—the one that had been planning on buying the estate, undoubtedly—stood up, frowning. “I don’t understand,” he said gruffly. “Didn’t you say he was dead?”

Jaskier watched as his mother turned on him, eyes blazing. Before she could say much of anything, the butler from earlier appeared in the doorway. How he moved so fast, Jaskier wasn’t sure. Maybe he wasn’t as fragile as he looked. “May I escort you out, sir?” he asked the man with a polite smile. “I believe the Count and Countess would like a moment alone with their son.”

Jaskier forgot about him in the following seconds, focused solely on the lovely faces of his parents.

Suddenly they were both rushing forward, hugging him at the same time. Jaskier sobbed loudly, burying his face in his mother’s hair. She still smelled the same, like honey and roses. He had missed that scent. His father’s body trembled with his own sobs. He had rarely seen him cry, even after the curse. That just made Jaskier sob harder, tugging them both closer.

Jaskier didn’t have a way of knowing at the time—face buried so deeply in his mother’s hair—but would later be told that they both shot thankful looks Geralt’s way while they hugged and sobbed and laughed.

Pulling back, he wiped roughly at his cheeks. “Mother,” he said to her before turning to his father. “Father.” He extended a hand, wiggling his fingers. Geralt stepped forward, stiff and obviously out of his element, accepting his hand. “This is my _partner_ , the man that helped me break the curse, Geralt.”

Rushing him, his father and mother both engulfed him in a hug. Jaskier noticed Geralt was stiff for the first few seconds before relaxing, peering over at him with a small smile.

He smiled back.

*

They continued their travels after a few weeks of resting at the estate, mostly for the sake of Jaskier’s parents, who looked near tears every time he even _mentioned_ leaving again. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his parents, or even the estate he had called home as a child, but he truly did enjoy his life as a bard and he knew Geralt was itching to return to the road; it was part of who he was.

When they left one early morning, Jaskier’s parents hugged them both. Geralt wasn’t as stiff as he had been, before, growing used to the hugs over the last few weeks.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier said, pulling back with a warm smile. “It’ll be different now. I’ll write, and visit.”

During the colder months, they would travel back and stay with them. His father had changed their will, writing—now—that the estate would belong to Jaskier, in life or death. On one of the coldest days of the year, he sat on the porch with Geralt.

He tugged his jacket tighter around him. “Do you think—” he started slowly “—you might want to settle down?” His eyes flickered over to the other man, staring ahead with an odd quirk to his mouth. “Not, like, right now,” he assured him quickly. “Just… someday, I guess.”

Geralt turned his head; Jaskier realized, now, that the odd quirk was a smile. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Maybe. I could limit my work to the surrounding cities, at least.”

Jaskier nodded, looking away and sighing happily. No need to rush; they had all the time in the world to figure things out.


End file.
